


My heart's always yours (III)

by OnlySkyAboveMe



Series: My Heart's Always Yours [3]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Illnesses, Injury, Minor Character Death, Nurse!Tessa, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, World War I, graphic depiction of war, soldier!Scott, throwback week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlySkyAboveMe/pseuds/OnlySkyAboveMe
Summary: 'He smells too much of rubbing alcohol and the harsh, clinical soap the doctors and nurses use to scrub their hands. His own scent still lingers though, right at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a place where she had spent a fair amount of time those magical days back at the end of December; when she was in his arms and she had felt like she was home and that she was complete.'





	My heart's always yours (III)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iwantthemtostay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwantthemtostay/gifts).



> There are minor character deaths here, as well as an intense retelling of an experience of war.
> 
> I have done my best to research what I can for this in the time I've had, but my apologies for any historical inaccuracies.
> 
> This is a throwback to a series I always intended to complete, but didn't get around to last summer. I would highly recommend you read parts one and two (they're only 2.5k words together) so you know what's going on.
> 
> Thank you to iwantthemtostay for sending me messages in all caps begging me to finish this little series after I let slip that I had written it. Your kindness and encouragement, and just all-round loveliness make the days we chat that little bit better.
> 
> Thank you as well to T and J for reading this last night while I was sleeping, meaning I had their ever-encouraging and thoughtful comments and praise to wake up to after the nightmare I jolted myself awake from!

_April 1917_

The brass door knocker taps gently for a second time as Kaetlyn hurries down the hallway to answer it. She’s only just finished getting dressed, and she straightens her uniform, smoothing out the skirt of her tunic with one hand as she opens the door with the other. On the other side of the door stands a couple, their hands clasped tightly together between them.

“Good morning,” Kaetlyn greets them politely. “May I help you?”

“Are you Tessa?” asks the woman nervously, looking Kaetlyn up and down.

“No, she’s just inside.” Kaetlyn eyes the couple on her doorstep curiously. They look vaguely familiar; she feels like she’s seen their faces somewhere before. “May I ask who’s calling, please?”

“Joe Moir,” Joe removes his hat and offers his hand, which Kaetlyn shakes. He gestures to his right, “this is my wife, Alma.”

Kaetlyn’s hand freezes mid-shake and her eyes widen in realisation. “You…you’re Scott’s parents,” she says.

Alma’s eyes fill with tears as she says this, and she nods in response. Her heart sinks seeing Alma’s reaction to her question; she knows the couple on her doorstep cannot bring good news.

“May I ask what it’s about? I don’t mean to pry but...” she hesitates and bites her lip. “She’s fragile at the moment.”

“It’s about our son…it’s about Scott,” says Joe, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat and pulling out a brown envelope. “This was found amongst his belongings and was returned to us a few days ago.” He sniffs loudly and swallows as he attempts to compose himself. When Alma’s tears begin to fall he reaches out and wraps his arm around her shoulder.

“And where is Scott now?” Kaetlyn doesn’t want to ask the dreaded question, but she needs to check they’re all on the same page. She knows the answer, really – happy parents don’t turn up on doorsteps with undelivered letters, crying at the mention of their son’s name.

“They don’t know.” Alma whispers. “His entire battalion was killed or injured in the battle, but there’s no sign of him. He could be PoW, but they haven’t had any evidence of that, so...” her voice breaks, “his file now states at he’s missing in action: assumed dead.” She hiccups between almost every word, and Joe lets out a sob at this point too, hanging his head. Kaetlyn feels hot tears burn at her eyes and throat.

“They’re not repatriating the Canadian soldiers, even though the Americans are sending ships for their fallen troops. We’ll never be able to see with our own eyes whether he’s dead or not. And we won’t be able to bury him at the church if he is.” Alma looks back up at her then, pain a grief etched across her face.

“I’m so sorry,” Kaetlyn whispers, hoarsely.

“We, um, we figured this Tessa must be a close friend of Scott’s if he was writing to her.” He fiddles with the empty envelope in his hands. “We wanted to make sure she heard the news before it was printed in the announcements in the paper tomorrow.”

“That’s very kind of you,” says Kaetlyn, though she thinks to herself that this whole situation might be easier for all involved if they _had_ just read about it in the paper tomorrow. She doesn’t know what to do now, doesn’t know what to say to Joe and Alma, who are now looking expectantly at her and the half-open front door.

“So, may we please speak to Tessa?” asks Joe.

“Um…” Kaetlyn glances away. She cannot lie now, she already told them Tessa was in. “I… er, I think she’s sleeping.”

“Just finished the night shift, eh?” says Joe.

Kaetlyn thinks back to being roused in the middle of the night by the sound of Tessa sobbing in her room; sobbing so distressingly loudly that she had hurriedly jumped out of bed to calm her before she began to hyperventilate, which had happened a couple of nights previously.

“Something like that,” Kaetlyn says, happy to latch onto the excuse Joe has provided her with.

Joe smiles softly then and nods, “Of course, we understand. Please could you pass our message onto her?” Kaetlyn inclines her head to agree. “We’re sorry that you will have to break the news to her, dear.”

“It’s probably for the best,” sighs Kaetlyn, already dreading the discussion. “Again, I’m so, so sorry.”

“Thank you,” whispers Joe hoarsely. Alma merely offers her own nod of thanks, unable to speak.

“I hope you have a safe journey home,” offers Kaetlyn as Scott’s parents depart.

She’s just closed the door and watched their visitors walk along the path when she hears a voice behind her and startles.

“Who was it, Kaet?” Tessa asks. She’s leaning against the doorframe down the hall, watching her, her voice empty and numb, her eyes vacant, just as they have been for the past few weeks since she received Scott’s last letter with that fateful black stamp across the envelope. Kaetlyn quickly wipes under her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan.

“How long have you been standing there?” Kaetlyn replies. She wants to know how much Tessa has heard.

“Since you opened the door,” she whispers, her eyes falling closed, a single tear escaping and sliding down her pale cheek. Her face should be fuller now, at nearly five months along, but instead Tessa looks terrible; her hands are cracked and almost permanently shaking, her skin is sallow, and her hair is dull and thin. Kaetlyn thinks that if Tessa stepped foot in the hospital today she would be mistaken for being gravely ill were it not for the unmistakable swelling of her abdomen.

Tessa leans into her heavily as Kaetlyn puts her arm around her, and slowly they make their way back into the living room. Both she and her mother are becoming increasingly concerned about Tessa’s mental and physical wellbeing and this news is just the kind of blow that wasn’t needed in their attempts to help her cope with her current situation.

Kaetlyn understands that Tessa, who is normally so strong and independent, has been consumed by grief and heartbreak, not to mention the slew of hormonal changes causing havoc. But she also knows that her dear friend’s fighting spirit still lies within her, beneath the pain, and that if the former Tessa could see herself now she would be disappointed with what she has become.

Tessa wouldn’t change a thing about the situation she’s found herself in - has told Kaetlyn as much - but Kaetlyn knows that in Tessa’s mind when the baby arrives, Scott will be there too, waiting with open arms to hold Tessa and their child.

Kaetlyn looks down at her friend sadly. Having guided her into the armchair by the fireplace, Tessa has all but curled in on her self, her knees as far into her chest as they can go, dark eyelashes closed against her pale cheeks, her face holding as much tension as a string pulling an arrow ready hit the bullseye. Kaetlyn smooths her hand through Tessa’s hair, willing her to relax, to find some peace, to find her _fight_. Tessa merely lets out a stuttering sigh as a tear finally makes its way down her cheek. She brushes it away with her thumb before kissing the crown of her head and leaving for her shift. On the front path she crosses paths with her mother, whom she hugs tightly for a moment, holding on just that bit longer than normal before she explains the morning’s events to her.

On her walk onwards to the hospital Kaetlyn makes a mental note to speak to the wife of Dr Lauzon, who runs a small gathering of women who knit, sew, and crochet items for the troops and local families in need. Marie has an infant daughter and is very much a mother figure to many of the young nurses who work in the hospital. She wonders if Marie might be willing to pay Tessa a visit, to try and encourage her and convince her to find her strength to push through in these difficult times, if not for herself then for the baby.

Because Tessa cannot lose the baby too. Letters and memories cannot be all she has left of him; Kaetlyn won’t allow that to happen.

***

_August 1917_

“Tessa?”

Tessa jolts awake at the creak of the front door and the sound of Mrs Osmond calling out. She rubs her eyes and peers at the clock on the mantelpiece, it reads far earlier than Mrs Osmond said she would be home from her shift at the hospital. She moves the book that had fallen into her lap as she slept onto the side table next to her crocheted blanket squares and slowly eases her feet off the stool they were propped up on and makes to stand from the chair, a great effort considering her nearly nine month baby bump is very much in her way.

She hears two voices in the corridor and she pauses, overcome with a sudden urge to shrink back into her armchair and hide from the visitor. But Mrs Osmond calls out again,

“Tess?”

“I’m in here,” she replies, nervously. Wary of strangers coming in and seeing her this way, now fearful more of their pity than of their judgement.

Mrs Osmond appears in the doorway then, her expression light and hopeful. “Tessa, I’ve brought Mr Moir to talk to you, dear.”

Bile rises in her throat and tears fill her eyes immediately at hearing the name. She brings her fist over her mouth and shakes her head profusely; she cannot do this today. Her head is screaming at her to run as her breathing becomes erratic, she grabs onto the arms of the chair in an attempt to heave herself out of it, but before she knows it Mrs Osmond is crouched in front of her and is placing her hands on her cheeks, and whilst her eyes are slightly worried, she has a smile on her face.

“You will want to talk to him, Tessa.”

She slowly begins to relax then as the panic and anxiety dissipates, eyes meeting Mrs Osmond’s, which brighten as they shine with unshed tears of her own. When Mrs Osmond nods she finds herself copying the action. She retreats back to the corridor, and Tessa takes a deep, steadying breath, bringing her hand to stroke her stomach, grounding herself, reminding herself to stay calm for the baby, if nothing else.

Mr Moir moves into the room, eyes darting around, and Tessa senses a hum of nervous energy about him. He’s stockier than his son, but has the same dark hair. His skin is well weathered from a warm summer presumably spent on the family farm, and she notices a patch darned onto the elbow of his jacket as he moves to remove his hat in greeting.

His hat is half way off his head when he freezes, his eyes seemingly having registered what he can see before him. She remains sitting and he stays rooted to the spot as they stare at one another. She waits for the disgust, for the judgement, for the anger to come over his features, just as her own father’s had done some seven months ago, but it never comes. Neither does the pity she is so used to seeing. Instead his eyes crinkle as he smiles softly, recovering himself as he makes his way towards her. She watches him as he approaches, her lip beginning to tremble and her tears on the precipice, one blink away from streaming silently down her face.

He holds out a weatherbeaten hand to her, which she takes, returning his firm grasp as they shake hands.

“Joe Moir,” he says.

“Tessa Virtue,” she whispers in response, before gesturing for him to sit on the stool her feet recently vacated.

There’s silence for a beat as Joe watches her, though she feels confident that he is not scrutinising her. She’s not keen to speak first; doesn’t know what to say anyway. In the end it’s the baby who breaks their silence, jabbing her somewhere up by her ribs and causing her to suck in a small gasp of discomfort, her left hand coming immediately to rub at the spot.

“I…” Joe says, but halts immediately. When Tessa glances up at him she can see he’s staring at her hand, which is still rubbing at her stomach. Her hand which is free of rings, engagement or wedding. To his credit, Joe seems to recover himself well.

“I can see why you’re no longer working at the hospital,” he says softly, a genuine smile on his face. Tessa bites her bottom lip, her eyes burning.

“Is it his?” Joe asks, quietly. And all she can do it nod, her tears now in free-fall.

“Oh, my dear,” he says, holding out his hands to her. With shaking fingers she takes them; they’re warm and firm, they feel safe. “My dear, he’s alive,” Joe whispers.

Tessa’s world seems to grind to a halt then. Her hands have gripped onto Joe’s of their own accord and her heartbeat is thumping in her ears. She knows she is shaking her head, but she cannot feel herself doing it.

“He _is_ alive, Tess,” comes Mrs Osmond’s voice as she crouches down next to the chair. Tessa looks at the woman who has stepped in and been her mother for the past seven months, and when she nods in earnest and smiles so brightly, Tessa finally believes them. She returns Mrs Osmond’s smile before turning back to look at Joe, who has a tear running down his cheek. “He’s at the hospital as we speak.”

“And he’s asking for you,” Joe says with a soft smile, squeezing her hands once more.

*

Together Joe and Mrs Osmond help her into her shoes and out of her housecoat, swapping it for a woolen shawl to protect her from the cooling early-evening air. As they steadily walk the three blocks to the hospital, Joe explains how Allied forces had discovered Scott was alive after an injured prisoner exchange with the Germans. He had been assumed dead because his jacket was found alongside the bodies of some other members of his battalion, but no ID discs or other clues as to his whereabouts. Unbeknownst to them, Scott had been captured and taken as a prisoner of war. They received the news of his survival and imminent return to Canada from the war office just in time to travel from their small town of Ilderton in the South-West of Ontario and meet him as he arrived at the hospital yesterday.

Joe tells her that Scott was badly injured on the battlefield back in April, suffering a sprained ankle, fractured wrist, and various shrapnel wounds, including a significant laceration to his face and left eye. The doctors aren’t sure whether it was due to mustard gas or just an untreated infection but that eye is now unsalvageable, and his ankle will require some rehabilitation to return its full range of motion. He is scarred from war, physically and mentally, and, due to a mild fever and a quite nasty eye infection he developed on the ship, he is bed-bound and currently unable to see, his remaining good eye bandaged too, probably adding to his current state of confusion and distress.

Tessa is glad to have received all this information on Scott’s current condition on their journey to the hospital, she feels she now knows what to expect. She ducks her head as they enter, trying to remain inconspicuous, eager not to run into too many of her former colleagues, some of whom were not particularly pleasant towards her regarding the reason for her dismissal. They are only down the corridor from the general ward when she hears him.

“Tessa, Tessa, I need Tessa!” he calls out. “She was right here, right here next to me. What have you done with her?!” His voice is loud, but it isn’t angry; he sounds confused, scared, desperate. Then there’s a clatter, the sound of metal objects falling to the floor. Tessa winces at the noise, remembering the few times previously that she had trays of implements and medication knocked out of her hands by anxious or angry patients.

“He’s been quite persistent in his search for you,” explains Joe, his voice light but with a hint of concern there. “He’s been in and out a little since he arrived; I think it’s partly the fever, partly the medicine. But he says your name in his sleep, mumbling about letters and unanswered questions. Then when he’s awake he keeps asking for you, asking when you’re visiting, why you haven’t visited, asks everyone who comes over to his bed whether they’re Tessa. I understand now why some of them were reluctant to answer.”

Tessa hums, feeling awkward on top of the nervousness about the fact that she’s currently very close to seeing the man they all thought was dead for the first time in nine months. She’s suddenly overwhelmed by the prospect of being reunited, particularly in these circumstances. If he hadn’t been hurt, hadn’t been caught, she would have told him about the baby and he would know to expect both her and her bump in the ward today. But then she realises he cannot see at present, so perhaps her worry is unfounded.

Her stalling is clearly enough to worry Joe and Mrs Osmond though, the latter of whom has just begun to rub her arms reassuringly. The two of them exchange a glance and Mrs Osmond proceeds to steer her into a chair in the hallway, saying Tessa should take a moment to catch her breath from their walk before going in to see him. She is very glad of the excuse. Joe mentions that it might be best to introduce his wife, Alma, to Tessa before she goes in to see Scott, especially as he is clearly agitated at the moment, so he makes his way into the ward to fetch her.

Tessa has managed to calm herself down by the time Joe arrives with his wife, who is grasping his hand tightly, a look of gentle curiosity on her face. Tessa turns her head to look away immediately, her natural instinct still to hide herself from prying eyes.

Alma must crouch before her then, because suddenly there’s a pair of hands on her knees and Tessa turns her head to meet a pair of familiar hazel eyes, glistening with emotion. Alma smiles softly at her and Tessa gulps loudly, at a loss for words.

“It’s so wonderful to meet you, Tessa,” she whispers, tears threatening to spill over at any moment. Tessa finds herself overcome with emotion at seeing Scott’s mother, who has instantly treated her as kindly as his father did, and looks so incredibly similar to her son that she would have known her in a crowd of strangers. Her tears fall silently as she blinks and Alma hands her a handkerchief, identical to the one Scott brought for her when he visited at Christmas.

“I have one like this,” Tessa manages to rasp out, rubbing the piece of lace-edged cotton between her fingers.

Alma smiles, “Christmas gift?” Tessa nods and Alma glances at her stomach, “It wasn’t the only unexpected Christmas gift he gave you was it?” Tessa feels herself blush as she shakes her head. Alma chuckles and rolls her eyes in that affectionate way only a long-suffering mother of three sons can. For the first time in quite a while Tessa feels something like peace and happiness wash over her as she returns Alma’s smile.

“I think you should pay him a visit, dear,” she says softly, squeezing Tessa’s hand before helping her to her feet and walking her her into the ward.

His bed is five in from the doorway, and she spots him before Alma points him out. Even in a room full of identically dressed men, all covered with various bandages and slings, she is able to find him immediately, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Alma pushes her forward with a kind and content smile, the smile of a mother whose family is still complete, despite the hardships of war. In that moment, Tessa realises that in possibly as little as a few days the same could apply to her, and it’s that thought that propels her forwards to him.

She quietly approaches his bed, her breathing ragged as she takes in the deep, angry red scars around the patch on his left eye, and the bandaging on his right. His face is scruffy with stubble, his fingernails filthy with embedded dirt and grime, and the nightgown he wears hangs off his once strong and broad shoulders. He cocks his head to the side a little as she stands before him, wrinkles his nose as if he senses her presence. But then he sighs, sinking further into his pillows as he does so, before taking a deep, shuddering breath.

“Scott.”

He starts when she speaks.

“Tessa?” he says, his voice cracks in a sob and he reaches out to her, grappling at the air as if to feel whether she is really there. “Is it you, are you really here?”

She steps right up to the side of his bed now, bending to place the gentlest of kisses to his forehead. “I'm here, Scott,” she reassures him softly, smoothing his hair back off his face. She takes his hand and kisses it before placing it on her stomach.

“ _We’re_ here.”

*

He’s sleeping when she returns the next morning, so she sits a while and watches him. She finds herself close to tears as he begins to mumble, then twitch, then start to thrash around beneath the sheets, a nightmare taking hold of his unconscious body. She wants to stand and reach for his shoulders, shake him awake and bring him back to reality; but she knows she could get hurt, and knows that he would never forgive himself if that were to happen.

Mercifully he soon startles awake, pulling himself out of his own nightmare. Immediately she reaches out to touch him, speaks to him to reassure him of her presence as he regulates his breathing, his chest gradually rising and falling more and more steadily under her palm as she soothes him.

“My ID discs,” he husks out after a moment, hand grasping at his neck desperately but finding nothing there.

She spots them on the table beside his bed, tattered and filthy, the edge of one broken off. They’re attached to a gold chain, not the army issue cord she’s used to seeing, and she’s amazed that the precious metal is still in his possession after his time as a PoW. The chain is heavier than she expects as she lifts it, reaches for his hand, and then gently drops them into his waiting palm.

He runs his hands along the chain hurriedly, like a worshipper might do with their rosary, blindly feeling for something he seems to think should be there. The metal slithers out of his hands in his haste, coiling into his lap. He grabs them desperately back into his hand, and sighs in relief when his fingers fall upon what he was seeking. He holds it out to her. “Can you take it off the chain? Please?” he asks, breathless from his earlier frenzy, his voice strained with emotion.

“Of course,” she says, taking it off him, her fingers wrapping around what looks like a tiny ball of twine, just under an inch in diameter. She carefully undoes the chain and slides the item off. “Okay, it’s off,” she tells him.

“You… you can undo it. Please undo it. Please tell me it’s still there.” When she looks up at him from the item in her hand she sees he’s still pitched forwards towards her, face pale, forehead misty with sweat, body trembling slightly with the effort. She gently places her hands on his shoulders and presses him back into his pillows, soothing him softly as he whimpers, his lip wobbling in a way that utterly breaks her heart.

She perches on the edge of the bed now, hoping to provide him with physical comfort and reassurance as her fingers work at unravelling the twine around the object. Once she picks open the knot it unspools neatly, and she gasps as the object the twine was concealing falls into her open palm. The gemstone in her hand is cool and heavy, a stunning shade of green, flecked with the thinnest of white streaks. Some of its edges are smooth, whilst others are jagged, like it was broken from a larger piece.

“It’s jade,” he says in explanation, correctly guessing that her gasp means she’s seen what was hidden beneath the twine.

“I don’t understand,” she breathes, reaching for his hand again and squeezing his fingers. He grips them back, hard, as he begins to explain.

“There was a kid in my unit called Patrick. I suppose he wasn’t really a kid - he was old enough to fight - but he was younger than me and I still felt like a lost child over there so…” He bites his lip and takes a few deep breaths to compose himself.

“He was a scrawny lad, but he was quick and light on his feet, was a dab hand at ducking and diving, chopping and changing direction at a milliseconds notice. A real asset on the battlefield and in the trenches.

He was a smart kid too and really funny, kept us all laughing in the trenches. The kid always had a smile on his face… but fear in his eyes.” His voice breaks then, so Tessa begins to rub soothing circles in to the back of his hand with her thumb. He takes a deep, stuttering breath before continuing.

“We were on watch, the night before we went over, just the two of us. I asked him if he was scared, because god knows I was. We came on duty not long after I had drafted my letter to you, so all my emotions were at the surface.

He told me about his girl back home, about his dreams for the future, that when he got back from the war they were going to open a shop together in Vancouver. He wasn’t from there, originally, but that’s where he ended up and met Elizabeth. He carried a piece of jade with him - to remind him of Liz and of Vancouver - a three inch shard of the stuff that he kept in his breast pocket.

I told him about you, then. Told him about out letters and how we finally met in person over Christmas. I told him that I had fallen in love with you; wanted to return to Canada and marry you, that I wanted everything with you - something I struggled to imagine I could have until today.”

He reaches his hand up then, and she guides it to her stomach, pressing it onto the side where their baby has just begun to kick. He sucks in a breath of surprise when he feels it, leaning forwards again to be closer to her, bringing his second hand haphazardly around to join the other.

She leans into him then, gently resting her head on his shoulder. He smells too much of rubbing alcohol and the harsh, clinical soap the doctors and nurses use to scrub their hands. His own scent still lingers though, right at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a place where she had spent a fair amount of time those magical days back at the end of December; when she was in his arms and she had felt like she was home and that she was complete. It was a feeling she never thought she would have again when the postman handed over those fateful letters.

“He was the only one,” he says quietly, voice thick with sadness. “The only one I told about you, about us. And…” He sobs, so hard that the sound catches in his throat and he chokes on it. She guides him once more back to his pillows with her hand on his heart as he coughs and wheezes. She glances worriedly at the nurse who has appeared at the foot of the bed, poised to step in and help him, but he manages to recover, a single tear sliding down his face from beneath his bandages as he whispers into the room. “The kid took our secret to his grave.”

His voice breaks at this, and he presses his lips together tight in an attempt to hold in his emotion, but they tremble and she feels tears prick at the corners of her own eyes. She takes his hand and laces their fingers together, and he holds on tightly as he tries to steady his breathing, huge, shuddering, hiccupping breaths in and out, in and out.

She leans over him so that her forehead is touching his, as a result, her bump presses up against him, and he brings their hands to rest there once more. They stay like that for a while, just them in their little bubble amongst the bustle of a busy hospital ward, their baby - made unintentionally, but with the greatest amount of love - moving solidly beneath their hands, moving more than Tessa’s felt it before, perhaps aware that what was once thought to be broken is now complete.

The kicking fades away after a while, their baby having settled to sleep, but they remain as they are, breathing together in synch. They only move when she becomes uncomfortable and returns to sit in the chair next to his bed. He apologises for not being able to help her and he looks so sad and guilty.

Once she’s settled and comfortable, Scott’s hand seeks out hers, the one still clasped around the small piece of jade that somehow made it back from the battlefields. She opens her hand out under his, and he takes the small piece of green stone between quivering fingers.

"Patrick broke his piece of jade for me. For us," he whispers. "Placed it against a rock in the mud and smashed it with his helmet. Just this corner came off," he holds it out to her once more and she takes it from him, curling her fingers back around the now blood-temperature stone. "He told me he wanted me to have it, told me ‘you have to get home to your girl too, buddy’. He's the only person I ever cried in front of over there, too."

He pauses for a moment, clearly not done talking, but also not quite ready to continue. Tessa wishes she could see his eyes, so she could tell exactly how he’s feeling. Scott has the most wonderfully expressive face, but it’s his eyes that really bare his soul.

"We went over together, the next morning," Scott says, voice low and quiet, matter-of-fact as he begins to recount his experience of war. "Either side of Paul Poirier, who I'd bunked with since initial training. He was a quiet, quirky guy from Ottawa, a sharp shooter and a master of card games. He had this huge stash of chocolate that he’d won off all the guys playing poker in the barracks. He wasn't much of a talker, but he was a great listener, or he put up with my endless chatter at least." His lips twitch then, a hint of a self-deprecating smile, but quickly return to their neutral position.

“We’d got about fifty feet into no man’s land before the shell hit, exploded right at Patrick’s feet. It killed him instantly. I got hit by the smaller shards of shrapnel, they hit my face, but it wasn’t too bad, or at least I didn’t think it was.” He gestures to his left eye with a shrug.

“The force of the explosion knocked me down, though, and I hurt my wrist and went over on my ankle. I stayed low and crawled over to Patrick…” He stops then, presses his fist to his lips, and Tessa squeezes his arm in reassurance. “There was nothing I could do,” he says in a hoarse whisper, before swallowing roughly, his face paler than before.

“Then I went over to Paul… He was shaking and covered in dirt, and his leg was bleeding. There was so much blood, Tess.”

She watches him, heartbroken as he begins to tremble, beads of sweat forming at his temples, his chest becoming flushed. She starts to speak, to tell him that he doesn’t need to tell her this, not now, not until he’s ready to, but he stops her with his hand on hers, and continues.

“I screamed out for the stretcher-bearer, but bullets and shells were still flying everywhere. I knew no one would come. I knew we were alone out there. I tied my belt around his leg to try and slow the bleeding, but once I took a proper look I knew it wouldn’t help him; the amount of blood and the size and location of the piece of shrapnel embedded in there was proof of that. But I did it anyway, and when he began to shiver and ask for his mother I took off my coat and laid it over him.

Those last few minutes, they were the most I ever heard Paul talk in the whole time I knew him. And I finally returned the favour and I listened, and then I laid down next to him and held his hand until he passed.”

Tessa’s tears are falling now; fat and heavy down her cheeks and onto her neck. She wipes at them with the back of her hand and sniffles quietly.

“I must have passed out soon after; I barely remember anything, except for a vague recollection of being lifted from the ground and dragged away. Next thing I knew I was being yelled at in German.”

His voice is scratchy now, and he clears his throat a few times without much improvement. Tessa reaches over to the nightstand for the glass of water that’s there, she deposits the precious green stone at the same time, terrified of losing it herself now. She helps him take some small sips, gently reminding him not to gulp it all down at once.

“I don’t know why they took me. Perhaps their stretcher-bearer got to me first? Perhaps it was my rank? Who knows. I think they regretted it quickly though. I was no good to them in the fields or the mines with my injuries, and once my eye got really bad I was taking up a hospital bed. I have to hand it to them, though, they did their best to patch me up as best they could, and they had fewer resources than we did.

Honestly, though, my whole time in the camp is just a hazy blur, I was consumed by nothingness and aside from my injuries I felt numb. I couldn’t tell you where I was, or what I did, or who was there.

I was barely conscious when they released me. I remember being moved; carried on a stretcher and loaded into a truck. There was one terrible moment when I thought that they were driving me into a forest to be shot, and what was awful was that I thought it might be a good thing, that it would be better to be dead than alive.”

He stops again, seemingly shocked that he has voiced these thoughts out loud. Tessa does her best to keep her breathing steady.

“But then I heard around me people speaking English and French and they told me that I was safe, that they were going to help me and send me home and that everything would be okay. There was a ship leaving so they put me on it before I was really well enough to, and now I’m here,” he gestures at his supposedly good eye.

Tessa stands again and presses a soft kiss to his cheekbone below the bandage. “You have no idea how glad I am that you’re here, Scott. Honestly, this is the happiest I’ve been in… well, nine months.” She grins and bites her lip, then she giggles, and he finally smiles.

Soon, they’re laughing together, the horrors of war temporarily forgotten as they reminisce about Christmas, of magical days spent skating in the park and cosy evenings spent in front of the fire with mulled wine, when both sets of their parents thought they were working and spending time with friends, respectively. It was a time of friendship and love, youthful innocence, and… not so much innocence.

It was a time of true happiness too, and now Tessa finally feels like it’s a happiness that can be rekindled, a happiness that she hopes will last a lifetime.

*

_September 1917_

“Where’s Tessa?” he asks immediately as a nurse arrives to begin removing the bandages from over his eye. He’s been looking forward to this day in earnest, ever since he began to see light in it again a few days ago. There’s just a thin dressing across it now, and though he cannot make out anything through it, he can sense the light and shadow falling across him as people move about around the ward. But they are all moving in a silence that makes him nervous.

“Where. Is. Tessa?” he asks again, more firmly, and he hears murmurs from those assembled around his bed. His damaged wrist protests as he clenches the sheets around him in his fist, grunting with the effort of pushing himself upright. He feels hands come to his shoulder, pressing firmly against him.

“Easy, Scotty.” His father’s voice cuts through the silence. “Easy son.”

“Where is she?!” he yells, ignoring the pain and burning in his throat as he does so. He feels another set of hands land on his arm, trying, along with his father, to push him back onto the bed. “No!” he cries, fighting against them with all his might, but his muscles are weak and he feels dizzy all of a sudden. He begins to falls backwards, the hands that were once pushing now pulling to counter the movement, guiding him back to a near horizontal position. Another nurse must come over then too, as the sheets are pulled up from around his feel and a his legs elevated with a couple of pillows.

“Please,” he whispers, reaching his hand out blindly. It’s caught by his father’s sturdy one, hardened and wrinkled from years of farm and yard work. “Please, Dad,” he sobs, swallowing back the tears threatening to bubble over. “Please tell me where she is.”

There’s another beat of painful silence before his father replies, “She’s in the maternity wing.” Scott feels himself tense and his father’s grip tightens on his shoulder, lest he try and make a break for it again. “She’s fine Scott,” he reassures him. “Everything is progressing as it should be. The doctor is with her, as is Miss Osmond and your mother. She is not alone, Scott.”

He lies there in silence for a moment, processing the news as his heartbeat whooshes in his ears. He has a million questions, the most prominent being whether he can go to be with her, but he recognises that he really isn’t in a fit state. He feels overwhelmingly tired as nervous energy courses through him. He takes several deep breaths to try and calm himself.

“The baby’s coming,” he breathes, not in question, but in an attempt to ground himself.

“Yes, son, the baby’s coming.” Scott can hear the soft smile in his father’s calm voice, and he finally begins to relax. “Now, let these ladies do their job and get your bandages all taken off, then you’ll be one step closer to seeing Tessa and the baby, okay?”

Scott nods his head steadily, then listens carefully to the nurses’ instructions and explanations as they carefully and efficiently remove his bandages.

He squints against the near-blinding light of the room, blinking his good eye rapidly as it waters, adjusting to light and air again. His vision is a little fuzzy in the periphery, but he can clearly make out the four fingers the nurse is holding up, and tells her so when she asks.

A doctor stops by soon after to inspect his eye more closely and leaves them with the assurance that it seems to have fully healed and that any blurriness should clear up in a day or so. He also assures them that Tessa is continuing to progress beautifully elsewhere in the hospital. Scott and his father thank him profusely.

“Lieutenant Moir?” A nurse approaches them around 15 minutes later, she has long blonde hair twisted into a bun below her nurse’s hat and she speaks with a quebecois accent. She’s also pushing an empty wheelchair towards his bed, and his heart begins to thump heavily in his chest.

His face must show how nervous and hopeful he feels because the nurse offers him an empathetic smile before saying, “Sorry, sir, no news yet.” He deflates a little at that, barely hearing what she has to say next. “I’ve come to move you to a different ward, sir. Now that your infection has cleared you can be on the general rehabilitation ward.”

He merely hums in response, his body still tingling from the adrenaline surge.

“This is a good thing, yes?” asks his father.

“Of course,” the nurse says, cheerfully. “The doctor is very hopeful that you can return home soon.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news!” exclaims Joe, elated. He pats Scott on the forearm, getting his attention. “Isn’t that good, Scott?”

“Uh huh,” Scott mumbles, his thoughts having firmly drifted to another part of the hospital, distracted by the fact that his child is in the process of being brought into the world at this very moment.

_Their_ child; his and Tessa’s.

_Tessa_. His mind sharpens as he focuses on her.

He needs to move, to heal, to mend, to walk.

He needs to do all of this for her, for _them_.

With renewed energy and motivation he nods determinedly at his father and the nurse, who are still hovering by his bed, sits up, swings his legs around and, despite noises of protest and caution from those assembled, firmly plants his feet on the floor. “Okay,” he says, already breathless. “Let’s do this.”

*

The process of getting him to the new ward is a far from pleasant one. The first attempt at standing up results in him vomiting over himself and the floor. His second attempt, once he’s cleaned up and in a fresh gown, ends with him in the wheelchair this time, but he feels so dizzy and tired from the effort he ends up begging the nurses to help him back into his bed, where he crashes, hard, into a deep sleep.

Two hours later they are finally making their way down the hospital corridors, his father walking alongside them carrying his meagre possessions, as the young nurse (Joannie she had introduced herself as, as she cleaned his vomit from the floor) pushes him slowly and steadily along. It had taken her, his father, and two other nurses to help him into the chair in the end, the classic method of slowly but surely seeming to work best for him and his currently questionable equilibrium.

Scott can feel his head nodding of its own accord as they finally approach the new ward, and he’s very much looking forward to clean sheets and a long nap. Suddenly, through the quiet of the hallways he hears a noise. It’s distant, faint, but it’s there; the quite unmistakable sound of a baby crying. Joe and Joannie stop walking and Scott’s head shoots up and, ignoring the throbbing at his temples, he looks towards them, lip already trembling.

“Is that…?” he asks, his voice dying as he struggles to articulate his question. He swallows roughly.

Joannie smiles softly. “We have no other labouring mothers in the hospital today,” she says, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Scott gently grabs her wrist. “Please,” he says, a few tears dripping down his cheek. “Please will you go and check they’re both okay?”

“Of course, sir,” she says, “just as soon as I’ve get you set up in the new ward, I will go and do that.”

“Thank you.”

*

Joannie returns around half an hour later, accompanied by Alma, whose tear-stained face displays the brightest smile Joe has seen since the start of the war. Scott stirs in his wheelchair, having refused to be transferred to the bed, lest it take him two hours to get out if it again, and delay him meeting his child. Scott looks up at his mother hopefully, and she descends upon him, wrapping him in a tight hug before pulling back and cupping his face in her hands.

“How’s Tessa?” Scott croaks out, tears falling now to match his mother’s.

Alma sniffs and smiles. “She’s doing just fine,” she reassures him.

“And the baby?” he asks.

“She’s wonderful,” Alma breathes.

“She?” Scott whispers. “I have a daughter?”

“You do. She’s perfect.”

At that moment all the tension Joe didn’t realise he’d been holding releases, and he crumples into the chair next to Scott’s bed and weeps.

*

Scott’s entire body relaxes in an instant. She’s here, and they’re both safe and well. Unlike his father, who has succumbed to tears next to him and is currently being embraced by his mother, Scott now feels adrenaline pumping through his body. He needs to see them, now, he cannot wait any longer. He turns to Joannie, who is still hovering nearby.

“Will you take me to them, please?” he asks feeling genuine excitement for the first time in many, many months.

“Of course, sir. She’s been asking for you.” Joannie gives him a knowing smile, her eyes swimming with joy.

His mother and father agree to wait behind for now, so Joannie wheels him into the ward. The short walk passes in just a few minutes, during which he enlists her help with something he needs to get done.

It’s mostly empty in the maternity wing, just a handful of beds around which the curtains are drawn. She pushes him towards the one in the furthest corner and he grips the arms of the wheelchair as the sound of tiny whimpers and snuffling comes from behind the crisp white material of the curtain separating them. When a soft and familiar voice coos and hushes the child he feels his pulse quicken in anticipation.

Joannie parts the curtains and his eyes seek out Tessa immediately. His stomach swoops when he sees her, propped up against several pillows, her dark lashes fanning over her flushed cheeks as she gazes down at their daughter in her arms, the tiny child swaddled tightly in a white crocheted blanket. The sight is almost a beautiful as when she lifts her head and her shining green eyes meet his and light up in delight; almost.

“Hello stranger,” she says with a peaceful smile.

Joannie wheels him over so he is as close to the bed as possible, and Scott thanks her before she disappears behind the curtain. Tessa’s hands are occupied holding their daughter, so he rests his on her leg.

“You’re more beautiful than I could ever remember in my head,” he says, gazing at her adoringly. “The most beautiful woman in the world.” She smiles shyly in response before looking back down at the baby.

“You may change your mind when you see this little one,” she says, nodding at their daughter. “Would you like to hold her?” He nods his head eagerly. “Kaet, could you…?”

The brunette who had been quietly hovering in the corner comes forwards then, throwing Scott a smile in greeting. Scott is glad to finally have a face to put with the name, and he makes a mental note to profusely thank Kaetlyn and her mother for all they have done to care for Tessa, and the baby, whilst he’s been away.

Kaetlyn confidently and carefully lifts their precious daughter from Tessa’s arms, then walks around the bed to him. He holds out his arms ready for her, cursing his body as they quiver a little. Kaetlyn transfers her carefully and he feels like all time stops as he holds her close to him.

“Hi baby girl,” he breathes as he takes in her face; tiny button nose, pink little lips, fair downy eyebrows and long dark eyelashes that flutter open as she’s jostled, revealing pale hazel eyes flecked with gold and green already. “You really are gorgeous”

He gazes at her for a few seconds as she blinks up at him, following her eyes as they move about to take in her surroundings. Then she yawns, hugely for such a little thing, and her eyelids droop closed.

“You go back to sleep, angel,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to her brow. “Daddy’s got you.”

“You’re okay?” Kaetlyn asks, her hand still on his elbow near the baby’s head.

“Yes,” he says. “But, maybe just stay nearby, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course,” agrees Kaetlyn, stepping back slightly to perch on the edge of Tessa’s bed.

“Don’t worry,” says Tessa, softly. He tears his gaze away from his daughter to look at her. “You would never drop her.”

*

“Hello little one,” says Joe softly to his granddaughter a short time later, as Alma leans over his shoulder and brushes her finger along the back of the tiny girl’s hand. “Aren’t you a tiny thing?”

“She’s six pounds, but the doctor says that’s fine,” says Tessa hurriedly. Her tired and anxious eyes meet his and Scott immediately reaches for her hand to reassure her that this isn’t an interrogation.

_Sweetie, it’s okay,_ he mouths, before nodding his head back over at his parents and she follows his gaze, her expression softening as she takes in the sight of their daughter being held by her grandparents for the first time.

“Count yourself lucky, dear,” says Alma, her eyes still on the baby. “Scotty and his brothers were all nine pounds!”

Tessa and Scott grimace at the same time, though perhaps for different reasons. “Sorry,” he says with a shrug, his mother gives him a fond smile in response.

“Have you decided on a name?” asks Joe, his finger now being grasped by the infant. Scott smiles and squeezes Tessa’s hand.

“Felicity Charlotte Moir,” he says, beaming.

“Well hello, Miss Felicity,” coos Alma as she takes her from Joe’s arms, rocking her gently with an enormous smile on her face, letting out a small, delighted gasp as Felicity stirs and opens her eyes. It warms Scott’s heart to see her so happy after everything that’s happened since the outbreak of war. Everyone in this rooms deserves a little bit of happiness.

He decides then that he cannot wait any longer, so he clears his throat, and on cue Joannie and Kaetlyn return from outside of the curtain. Tessa and his parents watch him curiously as he plants his feet on the floor, the two nurses coming either side of him to help lift him from the chair and into standing before carefully helping him lower one knee to the ground before Tessa’s bed.

Tessa’s hands come up to cover her mouth and tears quickly pool in her eyes. His legs are screaming in protest so he doesn’t wait around. Quickly, he fishes in the pocket of his dressing gown, pulling out the fragment of jade and holding it out to her.

“Tessa,” he says. “I love you, I love our daughter, and I want us to be a family.” He feels his own tears forming now. “I know I’ve already asked, but I want to do it properly now. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she breathes before letting out a hiccupping sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He reaches for her hand and presses the jade into her palm before moving her fingers to curl around it.

“I haven’t forgotten my promise to buy you a ring,” he murmurs. “I hope this will suffice for now?” She nods enthusiastically.

Then, with a grunt and a fair amount of effort (which he knows he will pay for later) he manages to lift up enough from the floor to press a lingering kiss to her lips. They part with smiles on their faces and a single tear rolling down both of their cheeks.

*

_October 1917_

They are married in Ilderton by the local priest a month later. Only his family are in attendance, with just Kaetlyn, her fiancé Trennt, and Mrs Osmond present on her side of the church. Felicity sleeps soundly in her grandmother’s arms throughout the short service, dressed in a white lace baptism gown that has been in Scott’s family for generations.

They sign their marriage certificate and share a chaste kiss at the altar before the small congregation moves over to the font. Kaetlyn, Trennt, and Scott’s cousin Cara step forward as Felicity’s godparents and Alma transfers the sleeping infant into young nurse’s waiting arms. Tessa’s heart is warmed as she watches her dearest friend exchange a shy glance with her dashing young fiancé, and she wonders if their wedding might perhaps end up happening sooner rather than later. The three of them promise to guide, love, and look out for their precious goddaughter before the priest pours the holy water onto her head, her assembled loved ones sharing a chuckle of delight as she protests the rude awakening.

Afterwards, once Felicity has nursed and re-settled into a peaceful slumber, they make their way outside just the three of them, wandering over to the row of maple trees, the bright red leaves shining in the early-October sunshine. Nearby, Scott’s uncle Paul is setting up his camera. Tessa turns to Scott and adjusts his tie, before transferring Felicity into the crook of his free left arm so she can reach up to untwist the elastic strap of his eyepatch, today a shade of dark grey to match his suit. He watches her fondly as she then brushes her white-gloved hands across her emerald green, tea-length dress. Satisfied, she reaches out to take their daughter from him again before they make their way over to stand in the dappled shade of the largest tree.

When she turns to face the camera she finds he is no longer by her side. Instead he is slowly but surely walking towards her, his cane left behind on the grass next to his uncle. She beams up at him as he reaches them and he presses a soft kiss to her lips, then bends to kiss the tip of Felicity’s nose - her lips twitch a little into the ghost of a smile, but she remains asleep.

When they look towards Paul, Tessa can see their little wedding party all gathered behind him, smiling broadly, Alma wiping at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Their daughter snuffles and shifts in her arms and she looks down just as Scott’s hand comes around to cup her tiny cheek, soothing her until she settles again. Paul calls out that he is taking the photo and Tessa just looks up into Scott’s eyes, returning his smile of joy and peace. When the photograph is taken she closes the gap between them, and they share a long, tender kiss as the autumn wind ripples through the trees, and maple leafs flutter around them.

***

_February 2018_

On a chilly late February day, three generations of Felicity’s family pack up her tiny Ilderton cottage. Her son Patrick, his daughter Jane, and her daughter Lottie flit around the house wrapping up her trinkets and keepsakes, organising the collection of her furniture, rolling up her rugs, and folding her dresses into bags, ready to be donated. As they work diligently they’re watched over by the photo that has sat in the same spot on the mantelpiece since the week it was taken over a hundred years ago.

“Mum, look!” exclaims Lottie as she opens a small, previously padlocked box. It’s made of smooth, delicately carved maple wood, the initials ‘S.P.M’ carved into the underside of it. Patrick and Jane join her at the table as she begins to unpack the box’s contents: a book of pressed flowers and maple leaves; a stack of letters in heavy brown envelopes, with just a single pale blue one on top, all tied together with string; ID discs on a shredded suede cord; two simple wedding bands; a small, green, heart-shaped pendant on a gold chain.

Tucked at the back in a cream parchment envelope is a birth certificate, the century-old paper thin and fragile along the edges and folds. Lottie studies it hard, deciphering the faded cursive script.

“This is Great Grandma?” she asks, fingers hovering over the delicate paper.

“It is,” confirms Patrick with a sad smile.

“So…” she reads on, carefully, “Tessa and Scott, they were her parents?”

“They were.”

Lottie wrinkles her nose as she smiles at her grandfather. “We all have their names,” she giggles, gesturing to herself and the both of them.

“We do,” says her mother, matter-of-factly, scooting her chair closer and pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

“Why?” she questions.

“Because, love stories like theirs,” says her grandfather with a wistful sigh. “You sure as hell don’t want to forget them.”

Lottie looks up at her grandfather, her wide, golden-hazel eyes shining and curious. “Will you tell me about them?”

*****


End file.
